


Toxic embitterment

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [52]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Instability, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 12:07:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21494029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: If there was a way to happiness, he did not see it.
Series: DS Extras [52]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Kudos: 19





	Toxic embitterment

His heart ached, at times. Or, more probable, the lack of it did so.

What was left in him from so long ago did not substitute what had once been organic, tried true. That has all rotted inside him by now, he had the inklings of such thoughts back then, before all this mess, and now he knew the truth of it very, very well.

All his choice, at the end of the day. There was nothing They could have done to convince him otherwise, and in the end They didn't even have to try.

His own crumbling lack of self had easily corrupted under even the lack of such influence. 

Funny, how much weaker he was now. Even worse, knowing Jack has been proven right at the end of it all.

Perhaps he had that inner strength once upon a time, enough to run, but now it has all seeped away, flowed out of him as if he had a crooked crack striking its way through him, and now everything has leaked out and there was nothing to be done.

Nothing at all, he thought, and it sent a harsh screw of bitterness through him, to settle in his chest and curdle the rest of what was left of him up. It made everything all the harder to be done, but now it was always the same song and dance.

The act of living, out here, was not as arduous as it had once seemed. Get the lines down in memory and then it was near second nature. Nowadays he didn't have to think much on what he even had to do, only the ever well known motions. 

Was it worse before this, tied down to the pulse of this world, it's very heartbeat? At least then every few decades something new may slither its way up into his mind, make his hands twitch and that thin vein of near godlike creation hum through him. It had been awestriking, that filling power that let him shape dust and clay and shadow into something that drew in breath and looked upon the world with fresh eyes.

All that rush, gone now. Along with the path to the world's very heart, ruled by someone he supposed was more fitting to the position. He had been Tyrant, but She was Queen, and there was a stark difference between that.

Now, down in the dirt and muck of a playing field that no longer traced the game of chess, he felt more than lost and weakened than ever before. Having that taste of that level of existence, and now it was too far for him to ever achieve again.

But, he already knew he'd not chase it to its ends anyway. The strain still tangled him up at times, tightened his breath in his chest and rolling the joints of his limbs, testing, just to make sure that there still were no bonds left. When he was alone he'd scratch at his neck, his wrists at times, just to ensure no noose was still there, tight and controlling and sadistically tugging him about, a puppet on all too tight strings. 

Cut free as he was, and now he hardly could stand. He still remembered when he had first come to, staring up at a pale blue sky and its swirling yolky sun, the foreign feeling of grass underneath him, wind and its breezes, the faint whispers of the trees.

He hadn't remembered how to breath, for those faint few seconds, and the burning numbness still got him at times, waking late at night and forcing his body back under his control, forcing himself to remember the way of the living. 

Right now, he could breath, and the stale air of this world, even inside a musty old tent, has long become alive with new energy, new rule. The ages of time he had watched over had allowed Her centuries of thought, and Her fresh new ideas rose all about the pawns now.

They weren't even pawns at this point, and that thought made him feel somehow worse. She saw them all as toys, not game pieces, little glass actors dancing about the stage for amusement. There was a difference, he knew that then and now, and yet whatever faint anger he had emptied through the crack he had in him and he couldn't hold it long enough.

He didn't think he could ever be truly angry at Her. He had no right to that.

It left him in one heavy exhale, that weakness of body and mind stringing up inside his chest, and again the ache echoed and hummed and would not leave him alone, no matter how tightly he wrapped these disgusting fur blankets about himself.

During the day he could forget about it, for a little while. Distractions, the ugly responsibilities of going about camp like business, the caring of a biologically aged body, it shoved such bitter emptiness down into a simmer. 

He couldn't dwell when attending to the children, or aiding in hunting some wandering beast down. Such lapses in concentration allowed for more mistakes on his part, and unfortunately that went down the domino effect of affecting others. 

The consequences of his actions still rippled at times, jostled the pond waters, and even in the lethargic way of acting the motions there still were hiccups. And all he could do was rough them out, or else a far worse outcome may raise its head.

For all his masking, sneering or playing up the act of it all, it would be ever worse to be left behind. He could not let himself risk that, not unless he controlled the circumstances, which he did not get to for often enough.

Perhaps She found it entertaining. The antics of leftover ghastly spirits never went many ways, and allowing others a way to bring them back against their will made it more dramatic, he supposed.

Meant he had no easy way out, unfortunately. He's tried, down in the ever dark Throne Room, and now he was barred from it up here as well. 

Not as if the darkness has never gotten in too deep up here at times, digging in the mind and dampening too fast, too much, but lasting as a faded chilly glow was somehow worse than the act of being among the living. His mind left him near senile when he was dead and ghostly, and that was just another breach of vulnerability he could hardly stomach.

Feeling…_changed_, after ruling the heart of this shadow world, made his skin crawl at times, ill and bitter. For better or worse, but in the pit of his empty chest he felt surely that it was the later. 

Having age catch up to him, having it mock him as the once pawns now belittled him in all his failings, all the consequences of his past actions catching up, it did put death as almost a better option at times.

But he has tried the ghost game already, and it tired him more than he could ever describe. Being alive, being around these people, the flickers of firelight and mumbled low conversation, that horridly scraping air of companionship, it somehow, in someway, outweighed that dark, slumbering temptation.

He always found himself returning back to campsites of life, even if he lost that battle of wills and let himself lapse into ghostly dreamland for awhile. Whether by his own hand or some other blasted creation, eventually he'd return to that warm hub of sound and feeling.

And, in the ways of moral mind that he certainly wouldn't agree with, they all let him. Exile has graced him a few times, but the former pawns, now just survivors, have to be just survivors in his eyes, now they greeted him with open arms and let him join their disgustingly cheerful little clan.

Growing day by day, then shrinking back as some left, or died, before circling back around to join once more. Similar to himself, he supposed, but he also knew no other has made such mistakes as he has done.

Not even mistakes. Choices, he had made choices, mind fully there and understanding of what he wished to do, and they knew this yet let him stay anyway.

It made him feel all the worse for it, opening that emptiness into something even stronger, crumbling void that ate up any repairs he, or any other, tried of it. Like a wormhole, he sometimes thought, or perhaps the great siren wyrm in the Quagmire.

Ever hungry and starving, yet aching for something it could not name nor ever gain.

They accepted him here, time and time again, and now it felt as if whatever anger and fight left in him, weak as it had been after the Throne, had finally leaked out and left him a husk. 

Only aches now, not even the pains. Numb and empty, and even lesser than these survivors he surrounded himself with. As if that would ever fill whatever void he had in him now, not to even mention the crack that drained it all out of him every time he felt nearly, almost, so close to almost full. 

In the depths of him it felt not right, to let the children see such things of him, but as more time passed he felt as if he could hardly care. His niece has seen that road, walked it a few times, and he still remembered, in all his times watching upon the heart of the worlds, watching as she fought and lost her own little battles.

It had never affected him much back then, viewing twin ghostly lights out in the darkness of the epilogue of worlds before that simple plane rolled back and brought the girl to her feet once more. Nowadays, even the thought of it, memory of it sent a harsh stab in his chest, somehow ripping a gap in the numbness and making him feel ill. Unlike then, he'd never encourage such thoughts in others, not now, when he was to live among them, and certainly not in a young child.

It was a good thing then, that she near never felt that temptation any longer. Perhaps being surrounded by the others, by other survivors, she did not wish to lose any more battles.

Far worse for him, then, to allow that temptation to get the best of him. Even more so, to know she knew such things and yet carried on as usual. She had her sister to think of, and not in the thought of joining her in death any longer.

He had no right to burden her, after all.

The other, younger of the group was a harder case. Death still sometimes escaped them, in understanding most of the time, and taking death over life was a concept they should not have to grasp while so young.

He could not stop the dragging emptiness in him from showing at times, but he had that bit of near nothing strength to mask it away in a child's presence. He did not want to introduce such knowledge to them, the very thought made him nauseas for reasons he knew not and did not mull over.

But, it was near impossible to keep such hidden away. 

He did not speak of such things to them, near them, and there wasn't understanding in their many eyes but only childlike worry, concern. 

He allowed whatever was left in him to aid in keeping face, and the children may know better but they did not ask that which they would regret. If there was one thing he could truly put his near all into anymore, it would be for the safety of the child survivors he has damned in this lifetime. 

If they saw the dull emptiness inside him at times it was only in passing, and then back to acting the world once more. Neither deserved such weighty knowledge upon them, to know one of their number wished for that which should not even be considered.

He convinced himself that he did not care for the others thoughts, these other people he has dragged to hells and far worse now. They may have allowed him into their circles, but pity set his teeth on edge and a disgust to swirl inside himself, thickening temptation and making him ever more bitterly ill. If there was shame in there as well, he did not look upon it.

His weakness, however, has always found ways to make that crack open a bit more so nowadays. If he found himself reaching out to take what they decide to give him, whether pity or genuine sympathy, then it was a weakness that he found himself not caring to fight any longer.

The fight was gone, after all. There wasn't much he'd fight against any longer, only the vaguest of sick sense, the ones that made him take arms to protect those around him. Cowardice was squashed when those he lived with screamed, and it was undesirable and uncared for and _so damn heartbreaking_ that nothing could stop him if he felt the other survivors were in danger.

It left him shaken, ill and disgustingly worried, fearful to know any one of them could get hurt, could even approach death unwillingly, and his own value was shoved back if any were harmed. It was a vile feeling, seeping the edges of his aching numbness, that void eating and eating but not able to tear away this horrid sense of responsibility, and even those who hated him wholeheartedly, even up to and past murder, got the same treatment of protectiveness. 

He hated it, terribly so, but clinging to that sense of near belonging, in holding out and keeping the safety of these camp residence above all else, it at least distracted him long enough as to not remember the whispers in the dark. Temptation lapped at his feet, the tips of his numb fingers, but was sheared away when all he could think of was the overwhelming know how of overprotectiveness. 

If it made him physically ill afterwards, it was no ones business but his own. Somehow, through all this time of being a dirty mortal wandering these shadow lands, somehow he has found he'd rather risk life and limb for these people than run away as he has always done.

Perhaps there had been a true reason of why he had brought them here in the first place. 

He did not let himself think of it too often, because the faint vein of _what if_ caught him then and sent him spiraling down, down, until he couldn't help but let the dark back in for awhile.

A benefit of the all powerful Throne; it took away these emotional images, these leftover feelings that gnawed at him, tried to take what he had none left of. Some days, near the late of night and all alone, even the knowledge of binding shadow and eternal torment meant little when he wished to forever forget how to breathe, how to feel for others.

It clung to him near constant, only smothered by distraction, and in the end it would consume him for that short period of time until ghostly undeath.

And then back he would be, against his senile, withered will, and the cycle was to repeat once more.

The same song and dance, day after day, and all he had was an ever consuming ache inside himself and the silver lined, pitiful need to _mean something, anything_ to those he has hurt.

He sighed more often than not, when it tugged too hard in his empty chest, but in the end there wasn't much left but to do as the cycle willed. 

There was no happiness to be found in it, he assured himself. 

If there was, even so faint and ignored, Maxwell did not dwell upon it.


End file.
